


Vinyasa

by svecounia



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-16 23:06:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4643394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/svecounia/pseuds/svecounia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The women Furiosa protected become the women that heal her. With their help, Furiosa flows through it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vinyasa

For days and days, she was bedridden. Every morning, she sat up, and every morning, Cheedo pushed her back down with a scolding hush. _Cheedo._ In pain’s ebb and flow, her mind hazy from lack of sleep or whatever’d been put into her tea to dull the pain – and her wits along with it – Furiosa occasionally wondered if this was even the same Cheedo who’d once sat wordless in the back of the war rig, and who’d once tried to run back into her captor’s arms, afraid of what he would do to them but more afraid of continuing to chase the unknown. 

Now Cheedo wasn’t even afraid of Furiosa, and Furiosa didn’t have the strength to back up her imagined authority anyway, so she gave up and let Cheedo get on with it. There were stitches, gauzes, poultices, teas, teas, and more teas, morning, noon, and restless night, Cheedo fussing over her wounds’ dressings, Cheedo chattering on about the state of the sick war boys, Cheedo bringing in a Milking Mother every once in a while to get a second opinion on how this eye was coming along, and while you’re here what about this fractured rib…. Of course the other former wives visited often, but it was Cheedo to shoo them out before long. 

Finally, Cheedo decided to bless Furiosa with permission to sit up in her own goddamn bed, and Furiosa hissed with the effort, leaning back against the headboard with gritted teeth and a heaving chest. Had she seriously broken a sweat just from sitting up? This was hell. The Wasteland was hell _ish,_ but at least she had had full mastery of her body out there, a roar of an engine at her feet and in her chest, a full clip within arm’s reach and the apparent gift of actually being able to _turn and reach for something,_ let alone use it. This was just unfair. 

“Watch your breathing,” Cheedo said for the millionth time, and Furiosa shot her a warning glare. Cheedo just chuckled at her and, after making sure Furiosa was settled, pulled her legs up onto the bed too, crossing them. It looked childlike, careless, effortless, and Furiosa simmered in silence. But Cheedo lifted a hand and dangled a loop of string from her thumb and index finger, about a foot long, thick like twine but softer more supple. Maybe she’d woven it herself. 

“Are you going to strangle me with that next?” Furiosa grumbled, but Cheedo just laughed again.

“No, but I thought it might be nice for you to look at something that’s not the ceiling for once. And I’m not going to let you read yet, all the lettering in our books is too small for that eye of yours right now, and the last thing you need is a headache on top of all this.” She gestured to Furiosa’s entire body and continued on before Furiosa could scoff. “Ever heard of cat’s cradle?”

“No.” 

“Angharad taught us, they played it a lot where she came from. You pull the string different ways and it makes different shapes. It can be a game, or just something to do on your own.”

And without warning, Cheedo’s fingers flicked through the loop of string, dropping her thumbs once, picking up another loop with her middle fingers, moving them in and out, quick and spiderlike, until she turned her wrists outward and presented Furiosa with a webbed, netting-like pattern held between her thumbs and index fingers. Furiosa stared at it.

“See, this one’s called Jacob’s Ladder. If you hold it like this—" Cheedo turned the shape so she was holding it vertically—“it’s supposed to look like the bridge from earth to heaven.”

Furiosa didn’t think it looked much like a ladder, but she’d never seen someone’s fingers work like that. “Do it again.”

Cheedo smiled and shook out the string until it was one loop again, then repeated the steps, shifting it a bit between her fingers when she’d finished. “Oh, this one came out a little better, see how the diamonds are all the same shape?”

“There’re other ones, too,” Cheedo went on, and she demonstrated a few more, none of which remotely resembled their names, like Cat’s Whiskers – which was really the same as Jacob’s Ladder, just giving up before the hard part – and Butterfly and Star and Crow’s Feet and Witch’s Broom, and she showed the all steps to Furiosa one by one. 

“So.” She dropped the loop again. “Do you want to try?” 

Furiosa nodded to her conspicuously missing arm, and when she glanced back Cheedo was already shaking her head.

“No, one of my hands and one of yours. It won’t be too hard. Look.” And she took Furiosa’s wrist to position her fingers properly, looping the string so it slid easily between Furiosa’s fingers. Furiosa scowled in thought, trying to remember the steps without Cheedo’s reminders, and they had to restart several times, bringing their palms together and apart over and over again, until finally,

“Okay, now turn your wrist like I showed you.”

Furiosa did, Cheedo as her mirror image, and between them stretched the bridge between earth and heaven.

* * *

Almost two weeks in, she was upright and mobile, and thank the stars for that, as Furiosa was growing more and more concerned that her sanity was about to join the long list of things needing fixing. She was still under close supervision, which even she begrudgingly admitted was a bit necessary – breathing too quickly still put a strain on her lungs that she tended to power through until she was on the ground. Like any machine, and much to her continued frustration, there was no point pushing it before repairs were finished. 

But she was allowed walks between Organic Mechanic’s old shop (now firmly redubbed the infirmary by an insistent Cheedo, who at this point was not to be tested) and the Vault, where the former wives had taken up residence once more. They were braver women than she, Furiosa couldn’t help but think: even standing guard there had been enough to make her stomach turn, and once she was done spending her nights in the infirmary, she certainly wouldn’t be moving back in there. Her old Imperator’s quarters would do, provided some kamikrazy, Immortan-reverent war boy hadn’t set fire to it or something.

No matter. Things were things, easy to replace, and there was plenty of space in the Citadel. Plenty of spaces far, far from the Vault.

But the wives – more often “the sisters” now, she’d heard – still somehow managed to call it home, and they’d transformed it in their own way. Books were reshelved and rearranged, more plants were brought in from up top, linens were draped from the ceilings to soften the harsh light from above the Wasteland horizon. Even Furiosa had to admit it barely resembled her old prison, and theirs as well, and since she wasn’t allowed to patrol the Citadel without Cheedo descending on her like a harpy, Furiosa made that path between the infirmary and the Vault her new beat. 

“Oh, Furiosa! You’re looking better!” 

Just inside, Capable was alone, by the look of it, and she seemed to be laboring at the task of moving their piano closer to the center of the room. There were marks on the dusty floor where she’d managed to move it so far. Furiosa raised her eyebrows.

“Need a hand?”

“No, no, I’ve got it, almost there anyway.” It looked very much to Furiosa that Capable was _not_ almost there, but she didn’t press the matter. She didn’t need Cheedo scolding her for skipping out on exercises _and_ overextending herself in the name of feng shui. “I’ve been meaning to move this forever, so I was just taking a break from practicing.” Capable gestured to a violin resting on top of a chair back near the piano’s original position. Beside it was a rusty stand spread with sheet music. 

“I never learned. Refused to,” Furiosa said shortly. 

“I didn’t want to at first, but there’s so many different things to play, and they all have different moods and meanings. Half the time I was playing the angriest pieces we had for that old man, and he was too stupid to notice. I saved the sweetest ones for us.” Capable’s lips curved in a smile, but it dropped quickly. “Oh, you should have a seat, I’ll play for you.” There was more than a note of insistence in her tone, and Furiosa suspected this was more about her rest than Capable’s practice, but Capable was already bringing over another wooden chair and pushing her into it. Furiosa’s knees obeyed without her explicit order, and Capable rushed back to her music stand before Furiosa could even draw breath to protest; by the time she was all set up, she looked so sweet that Furiosa couldn’t summon the strength to tell Capable there was no need.

“This is from Vivaldi’s _Four Seasons._ You probably know it, right?”

Furiosa shook her head. Capable raised her eyebrows.

“Wow, you really did refuse. It’s one of the most famous. And one of my favorites, since, well, we really only get one season now.” She pointed out the window with her bow at the blazing sun in the window, then made her grip more delicate, setting the bow on the strings with the grace and care of an expert. 

The notes poured forth, gentle, gliding, fluid, and Furiosa’s shoulders relaxed. It was like watching sunlight on water, Capable’s fingers working across the strings, the jump of the bow, the slope of her shoulders and shifting stance as she moved through it. It wasn’t quite a melancholy melody, but it made her feel solitary, comfortable in isolation, warm. It was a short piece, over in minutes, and Furiosa swallowed, sitting up straighter once Capable let the bow fall to her side again, and she clapped a few times. Capable returned the gesture with a delicate, combat booted curtsey. 

“That was beautiful,” was all Furiosa could come up with, and it felt woefully inadequate. 

“Largo from Winter,” Capable supplied as if that were helpful context to Furiosa. “To me, it sounds like standing in the sun after a long, cold bath. A bit lonely, but introspective. But I don’t hear the chill in it, only the warmth. Maybe that’s what winter was like to Vivaldi. Cold outside, warm inside.”

“What does his summer sound like?”

“Hazy, roiling, unrelenting.”

That was familiar. “Can you play it?”

* * *

On the third week, she refused to be idle any longer. She’d proven her generally consistent commitment to her health, even Cheedo couldn’t deny it, and she suspected Capable had been arguing on her behalf from behind the scenes. But it wasn’t either of them that burst through the door early one morning while gray haze still hanging above the horizon and chucked a pistol onto the threadbare blanket that covered her legs.

“Come on, these war boys can’t shoot for shit,” Toast said. “Please tell me you can show me how it’s done.”

Furiosa winced as she sat up, raising her eyebrows at the gun still resting on top of the covers. “You’re a good shot.”

“Not good enough. Come on,” Toast repeated, a superior smile barely concealed from her lips that told Furiosa quite clearly that Toast knew she was going to come, it was just a matter of how many fake protests the both of them had to sit through first. 

Furiosa decided it was zero, and she eased her legs out of bed.

“So the war boys are allowed ammo now?” Furiosa grumbled as they made their way through the tunnel towards the lowest spire. There was a makeshift shooting range on top for target practice: much as war boys liked to believe they were born perfect shots, Furiosa’d be dead if that were anywhere near the reality, and bullets were too expensive a commodity to waste on inexperienced gunners. 

“Don’t worry, the Ace has a grip on them,” Toast assured her, and the mention of Ace alone comforted Furiosa. If anyone could keep them reined in, it was him. “Cheedo’s been so good with them compared to Organic that they’re pretty much convinced she’s a witch, and they never really see you just like they rarely saw Joe. As far as they’re convinced, you’re immortal, too.” She snorted. “They’re idiots, but once they start thinking they might be able to do more with their lives than just throw them away, they start to come around. They’re not itching to kill themselves or anyone else just yet, at least no one here. Saving it for Gas Town and the Bullet Farm once they run out of water and come running.”

Furiosa didn’t speak, her mouth pressed into a hard line. If she’d known Toast was spending so much time among the war boys, she’d have intervened ages ago, which is likely why it was kept from her this long. Now Toast could talk about it casually, as if it were nothing: the damage was done, and revoking the privilege now would send a message she didn’t dare imply. 

A delegate to the war boys was smart. Furiosa just wished it had been her, not someone so much more valuable. Ace had kept it from her as well; he’d get a talking to. But Toast interrupted at precisely the right moment before Furiosa could get too carried away.

“Anyway, he’s confident, so I’m confident, because I know you’d be confident because _he’s_ confident,” she said promptly as though that settled the matter. “And if you’re teaching me to shoot, it won’t just be those half-life nutcases left to defend this place.”

“Which is exactly why you shouldn’t be on the front line,” Furiosa growled. “You’re a full-life, we need you to—"

“Do what, stay safe so I can churn out babies?” Toast snapped. “There’s no other reason for me to hide, my life might be longer, but it’s not more valuable.”

 _”I_ need you,” Furiosa corrected her forcefully, stopping in her tracks. “I didn’t drag you through the desert so you could be picked off by some Bullet Farm gunner, _you_ didn’t live through that so you could—"

“Die defending our only shot at healing this place?” Toast cut her off. “Forget it, Furiosa. I’m not going to stay safe when I could be out there making a difference. You didn’t, and neither will I.”

“Now you’re Imperator Toast, are you?” Furiosa sneered, but to her utter dismay, Toast lifted her chin, her eyes sparkling dangerously.

“Maybe I will be.”

Furiosa felt her heart fall straight through her stomach. This isn’t what she wanted for them, this wasn’t what she had wanted for _herself,_ and the thought of any of them living the way she had to, doing what she had to do to survive—Toast nursing constant injuries; Toast feeling the crunch of bone beneath her fist; Toast feeling the warm, thick gush of blood and feeling proud that it isn’t her own—

Again, Toast interrupted her thoughts as though Furiosa were speaking them aloud. “This isn’t Joe’s world anymore. It’s ours.” Toast allowed Furiosa a moment’s comfort before adding, “And if you don’t teach me to shoot them before they shoot me, I’m not gonna last very long, because I’m going out there regardless.”

“If you think I’m not going to fight you every time you try to head out…”

Toast grinned. “Good. You’ll be the perfect sparring partner.”

* * *

Given a nearly clean bill of health, most of Furiosa’s freedoms had been returned to her. She met with Ace regularly for inventory and training updates. She visited the range with Toast almost daily. Cheedo couldn’t keep her in the infirmary any longer, and she’d moved back into her old quarters as she had planned. She felt very empty to find them just as she’d left them before their flight in the war rig: she hadn’t exactly planned a specific emotional response, but she’d hoped it would be more neutral. A return to normalcy, not a return to square one. 

She had hoped desperately that “normal” wouldn’t come to be associated with the Citadel, even with the drastic transformation it had undergone in the sisters’ hands.

Her room was too reminiscent of the old days, she’d have to get Capable’s help with that someday, but for now she made her escapes whenever she could, this time climbing the treacherous, dangerously narrow staircase to the upper spire. It twisted up the exposed rock face in a steep slope, usually only navigated by the experienced green thumbs who, unsuited to the sand and death of the Wasteland, dedicated themselves to soil and life instead, picking their ways up and down with surefooted accuracy. She’d never heard of a green thumb falling, not as long as she’d been at the Citadel. 

She thought that would mean the climb was easier, and looking back that assumption had been ignorant.

She arrived at the top with wobbly knees, much to her disgust: dust, bullets, combat, fine, but heights were decidedly not her preference. She cursed her weakness inwardly, and tried to reassure herself that hers was a more horizontal bravery, not so much vertical.

“Made the climb, huh?”

Furiosa jerked around – this particular plot was fallow for the time being, she didn’t expect anyone to be up there with her, but sure enough, there was the Dag, sitting with her legs folded in front of her, hands resting gracefully on her thighs, and squinting up against the sunlight at Furiosa as though they’d agreed to meet up there only minutes before. Taken aback, Furiosa couldn’t come up with a reply quickly enough, and the Dag waved her forward, patting the earth beside her.

“Come on, then.”

Furiosa moved forward, puzzled, and cleared her throat as she stood beside the Dag. “I thought I’d find you at one of the active plots—"

“Never mind that, come on, sit down,” the Dag insisted, taking Furiosa by the hand and tugging insistently until she obeyed, slightly disgruntled, and dropped one knee to the dirt so they were at more or less the same height.

“Okay, we can start that way, too,” Dag said, switching her position so she was kneeling too, “but you’re going to have to relax and sit _down.”_ Another tug, and Furiosa dropped her second knee. 

“You’re going to be very bad at this if you don’t loosen up a bit,” Dag scolded her, then quickly squared her shoulders and straightened her back, gently pressing her palms together, fingers straight. 

“What is _this,_ exactly?” Furiosa asked, not without a touch of impatience, but the Dag just closed her eyes.

“Shhh,” she hushed her. “Let go for a minute. Copy what I do.”

But to Furiosa’s eye, the Dag wasn’t doing anything except just sitting there, and she couldn’t exactly pray her hands like that, having only _one hand._ She rolled her eyes and decided to settle for a bit of the Dag’s idiosyncrasies, she could give the requisite minute that was asked of her and then she could go back to finding another solitary place to haunt. She rested her hand on her thigh and straightened her spine, resigned. 

For several aggravating moments, the Dag appeared to commit to doing absolutely nothing, and finally she let out a deep breath, planting her palms in the soil and jumping her legs back so she was balanced on her toes and hands, her body a straight line behind her. Furiosa just frowned, impatient, but Dag urged her without looking up.

“I said copy what I do, come on.”

Furiosa huffed a sigh and did her best – again, more difficult with one hand, but she was strong, and her right arm supported her just fine. Just when she’d caught her balance, Dag lifted her hips and shifted her weight until she formed a kind of triangle with the ground.

Furiosa imitated her as the Dag moved through all sorts of bizarre movements – she’d lift one leg, lunge, straighten, lean, and stretch, and before long Furiosa felt her legs begin to shake with the strain. The Dag appeared to be putting in no effort at all, eyes always closed, taking slow, measured breaths, her long hair brushing the dirt every so often. 

“Stop staring to see if you’re doing it right, just move through it.”

“How am I supposed to know what the hell I’m—"

“It’s not about doing it perfectly, it’s about doing what feels right.”

“I’d feel right if I wasn’t doing it,” Furiosa grumbled obstinately with a glare at her shaky right leg that supported her, her left leg lifted behind her and her arms straight against her sides. She noted that Dag’s left leg was _much_ higher. 

“That’s not the right attitude. I said let go. Come on.” She lowered her leg so they were parallel, her torso folded over, then guided her hands over her head, arching her back to follow the flow. Furiosa let out a breath and did the same. The sun was warm on her face.

The Dag didn’t speak again for a long while. Furiosa eventually found a rhythm – many of the movements were repeated over and over, the left side was always the same as the right, and after some time there was even some comfort in Dag’s measured breathing. She found herself matching breaths without even thinking, each pose a relief as much as a challenge.

They stood perched on one leg, hands stretching towards the sky like trees. They lunged forward, shifting weight so their arms followed the lines of their legs. They leaned back, backs arching to match the guiding arm above them. Furiosa often struggled with her balance, but the Dag never commented. She didn’t even look, just let Furiosa get on with it and practice as she would.

Finally, long after Furiosa had forgotten to keep asking herself how much time had passed, they lowered their chins, feet together, palms forward.

“There. It’s not so bad, is it?”

Furiosa opened her eyes, and the Dag gave a tiny sidelong smile. She didn’t wait for Furiosa to answer, she just placed her palms together and inclined her head, then turned to head back down the spire steps, leaving Furiosa alone with a gray, hazy, exquisite calm. 

Furiosa looked out towards the sun.


End file.
